


White Sails

by Snits



Category: Black Sails, Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Minor Captain Flint | James McGraw/John Silver, One-sided Kent/Chandler, Silverflint unrequited, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:00:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22060714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snits/pseuds/Snits
Summary: Kent knows the moment Flint walks in that Chandler is lost to him forever. If there had ever been any hope for the fragile little love Kent kept in the cage of his chest, Flint destroys it simply by opening the door to the incident room.Flint's Interpol team work a case with the Whitechapel detectives.
Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw/Thomas Hamilton
Comments: 14
Kudos: 70





	White Sails

Kent knows the moment Flint walks in that Chandler is lost to him forever. If there had ever been any hope for the fragile little love Kent kept in the cage of his chest, Flint destroys it simply by opening the door to the incident room. Chandler looks up, sees him, and stops. He stops everything; Kent suspects he even stops breathing. In mid-sentence, he falls silent, his mouth hanging open, his eyes wide, and colour racing into his cheeks. And Flint does the exact same thing; he sees Chandler, and he stops everything. They both stand there, staring at each other across a busy room, until Miles elbows Chandler, and the curly-haired guy next to Flint pokes him in the back. 

Then they walk towards each other, almost warily, as though they believe the other must be a trick. Chandler holds out his hand and breathes, "Chandler," and Flint takes it, gently, and replies, just as softly, "Flint," and they just stand there, holding hands in the middle of the room. 

The curly-haired guy meets Kent's eyes and then looks up appealingly at the ceiling. Flint does not look like someone who habitually speaks softly and holds hands in the middle of incident rooms. He is shorter than Chandler, stocky, he has hugely muscled arms and a big chest, bright green eyes, a shaved head and a foxy beard. He has what looks like an iron rivet in one earlobe, and he is tanned and weathered; in short, he looks like a fucking pirate. He's even dressed all in black. Chandler, for all he's the tallest man in the room, and for all the broadness of his shoulders, looks delicate and willowy beside him. Flint certainly has a presence, if nothing else; Kent had actually assumed he was much taller, until he stood before Chandler. 

But he also looks sort of shocked, like Chandler is someone he's dreamt about for years, but never believed was real until this moment. 

They're obliged to work together over a murder committed in Whitechapel, but by someone already under investigation by Flint's team at Interpol, and all of them, including Chandler, have been complaining about it. Miles had been giving Chandler tips on how to get rid of Flint quickly by making it impossible for him to work with them, but Chandler says, in a dazed way, "would you like a drink?" and Flint agrees, and they both go into Chandler's office, Chandler pours them each a cup of tea, and they sit opposite each other, not even speaking, just looking, as though they can't bear to look away. 

"What in the fuck," the curly-haired guy asks loudly. 

In due course, they meet Flint's team, who are the scariest looking bunch of individuals Kent has ever laid eyes on, and he catches murderers for a living. There's curly-haired guy, John, who has one biological leg, and one silver blade. There's Jack, who speaks like he ought to be teaching in Cambridge, but dresses like he should be busking in Camden, and Charles Vane, who rivals Flint for most muscles and most threatening; he is mostly silent, he has long, straight hair, piercing blue eyes, and an ironical smile. Then there's Anne. 

On their first meeting, Flint goes over a particular detail about the knife used in the murder. Without pausing, he meets Jack's eyes across the room, Jack nods curtly, and thumbs something into his phone. Shortly afterwards, Anne turns up. She wears a hat practically over one eye, and non-descript clothing. She is whip thin, has ice blue eyes, and she moves like she's about to attack someone. Jack calls her 'my lovely girl', and they huddle together over photographs of knives. In short, they all look like fucking pirates, and Anne Bonny knows more about knives than anyone has any right to know. 

Flint and Chandler have eyes only for each other. As Kent observed, Flint has presence. Chandler's team is accustomed to throwing things at each other and shouting out during Chandler's crime scene summations, but when Flint does it, his team listens in silence, and he seems to communicate entirely through looks and minute gestures. Silver is his Miles-equivalent, and Kent suspects they actually can read each other's minds. He has never seen a team work so seamlessly. The Whitechapel team sit there, feeling uncomfortable and unnecessary, and yet when Chandler gets up to talk, Flint listens to him using the same intensity with which he speaks. 

He makes polite contributions. He hands Chandler whiteboard markers, erasers, photographs; everything Chandler needs, Flint has to hand. And at the end, Flint takes out of his pocket a small bottle of hand gel, and offers it quietly to Chandler. Nobody but Kent notices, because his eyes have been on the pair of them the entire time. Chandler looks at it, and then at Flint, stunned. And Flint does this little awkward shoulder twitch, but they're sort of glancing at each other and trying not to look like they're gravitating to each other, when it's obvious to everyone that Chandler is Flint's sun, and he's being drawn swiftly into orbit. 

Surprisingly, considering Flint's team look like pirates, they actually all get on quite well, and the case progresses quickly. Chandler and Flint work perfectly together, as perfectly as Flint and Silver work together, and more perfectly than Chandler and Miles, although in their case, the imperfectness is what works in their relationship. 

After the first week of working with Flint, Kent sees Miles cornering Chandler, and deliberately places himself to overhear. It's after hours, technically they're all supposed to be going home, but Chandler never does, and it's not unheard of for Kent to stay too. 

"So," Miles says, "what's up with you and Flint, then?"

"I don't know what you mean," Chandler replies, unconvincingly. 

Miles laughs. "All this time, poor Kent following you around like a puppy, all Flint has to do is look at you?"

Chandler makes a frustrated sound, half a cry and half a groan, and it simultaneously flips all of Kent's switches and crushes him. "I don't know," Chandler admits desperately, "I've never--never reacted like this. To anyone. Anything. He just..." he makes another frustrated noise, and Kent leans against the wall, heavily. "Miles. What am I going to _do?_ "  
"Sounds pretty simple to me, boy. He looks at you like you're the centre of the universe."

"No, he doesn't," Chandler answers, and he sounds so unhappy, Kent wants to burst in on them and shake him. "Are you kidding?" Miles scoffs, "I have never seen a man so in love. He may as well have cartoon hearts for eyes. Just ask him out."

There is a pause. When he speaks again, Chandler sounds pained. "He speaks Spanish," he says softly, almost tenderly. "He's read Don Quixote in Spanish. I've never met anybody else who has read it in Spanish. He likes books. He used to be in the Navy. I've seen a photo of him in his uniform. Miles."

"Yeah."

"I--I just can't stop... _thinking_ about him. I want to be with him all the time."

"That's what it's like when you fall in love," Miles says impatiently, "that'll wear off."

"He knows," Chandler pauses again, and Kent can almost see his nervous swallow, "he knows about the OCD," he finishes the sentence in a low rush, as if it's something to be ashamed of. "And he--he did research on it. Overnight. After the first time we met. He carries stuff with him for me, like--like you do." 

"I do not know where you want this conversation to go," Miles tells him, with characteristic bluntness. "I've already told you what I think you should do. Ask him out."

"He won't want to stay with me," Chandler blurts out, in a panic, "he'll get sick of me and he'll leave--Miles, I don't think I ever actually felt happiness before I met him; I mean. I know how that sounds. But I've always--I've always been anxious and never able to switch off, but when I see him, he makes everything, all this--" he breaks off, and Kent imagines him gesturing to himself, to the neat piles of colour co-ordinated pins on his desk, his possessions all at right angles to each other; "he makes everything in me go quiet. When he leaves, I don't know what I'm going to do."

"What do you mean, 'when'?" Miles asks gently, and Chandler must really be in a state if Miles is being gentle with him after a speech like that. "I mean _when,"_ Chandler replies miserably. "Why couldn't I just be normal?"

It breaks Kent's heart. He can't listen to any more. 

They continue to orbit each other throughout the investigation. Every glance and every touch lingers; they sit far closer to each other than is necessary. They plan moving in on their suspect, a known flight risk. Flint turns out to be one hell of a strategist. When Chandler contradicts him, they calmly and inoffensively argue the point back and forth, neither of them ever losing patience or respect. Chandler lights up, visibly. He loves it. He loves the validation, being treated not like the posh boy they had all believed him to be, nor the neurotic child Anderson believes him to be, but as an equal. With every intelligent argument, Chandler looks happier, and the happier Chandler looks, the softer Flint's expression becomes.

Finally, they submit their evidence to the CPS and await a warrant for arrest, which duly comes through, and it's time to move in on their suspect. Both teams are scattered through the streets near the suspect's location; in pairs. Kent somehow ends up with Silver, who is wearing a Paralympic running blade, and remarks, "London 2012," when he sees Kent looking. 

They settle in to wait. Silver buys food from a nearby chippy, and they eat nonchalantly, as though waiting for a taxi. "So," Silver says, around a mouthful of chip, "you love Chandler."

"Yep," Kent replies, uncaring. It doesn't matter now. 

"I love Flint," Silver says, unabashed. That doesn't matter now either, Kent guesses. 

"Why?"

"Why do you love Chandler? Why do they love each other?" Silver shrugs. "I just do."

"He's scary. Flint, I mean. He looks like a thug." Kent replies waspishly. One only had to look at Joseph Chandler, tall, golden blond, so perfectly dressed, to fall in love with him; it was not for Silver to compare him to Flint. 

Silver chuckles. "He is scary," he agrees. "I have seen him in more bar brawls and boxing matches than I care to count, and I'm fairly certain he could kill a man with his bare hands."

"We can all do that," Kent argues. Silver shakes his head, "no," he replies, "not like this. Someone like you could hit someone trying to defend yourself, and kill them, yeah. Fair enough. I mean Flint could do it on purpose. There is something dark in him. He gets counselling now, but God. He used to be angry."

The hair prickles on the back of Kent's neck. "Are you saying we should warn Chandler about it?"

Silver shrugs. "Chandler already knows about it. We've talked about it. All three of us sat down and discussed it. I've filled him in on the few times I've seen Flint drenched in someone else's blood. He always manages to get out of it, though. There was one copper who thought he had him, and not only did Flint convince everyone he was entirely innocent, he actually sued the guy for slander and won."

"You're kidding?"

"No," Silver says, eating another chip. "He makes compromises and admits fault for no-one. That's how I know he loves your Chandler. Not just by the love-light in his eyes. It's not infatuation. It's not even lust. They're just meant to be together." He shrugs sadly. "Which I'm trying to be happy about, for him. Maybe you should stop looking at him like you want to fight him."

"I don't!" 

"Yes, you do," Silver smirks. "I, personally, would like to see you try to fight him."

Kent never does try to fight him, although he only has to wait another hour or so before he sees Flint's dark side in action. The known flight risk, their target, decides that flight is not an option, and swiftly turns to an alternative; a human shield. He just so happens to grab Joe Chandler. Kent panics, Miles panics. It's safe to say, they all panic; save for Flint, who draws himself up like the Naval officer he once was, and begins to talk. Kent has been on hostage negotiation courses, he has heard the things you are and are not supposed to say. Flint spends the next few minutes verbally eviscerating their suspect; he knows the intimate details of the man's life, has been investigating him for years, and he wields every small failure like Thor swings his hammer. 

While the suspect gets progressively more agitated, while he starts shouting things at Flint, and ordering him to stay back, Flint strides forwards in measured steps, his presence as massive as ever, and the suspect takes the gun he holds away from Chandler's head, and points it wildly in Flint's direction. Flint feints to one side, lunges, and tackles the man around the waist, managing to twist his body and shove Chandler away from the pair of them. The man yells, and the gun goes off, harmlessly, into the air, but Flint draws back his fist and starts beating. 

The chaos is such that all Kent can see is a bloodied fist, rising into the air again, and again. Chandler is hurried to an ambulance and bundled up in a blanket. He does not respond to the paramedics' questions, but keeps asking in a faint, dazed voice, "where's Flint? I heard the gun go off. Where is he?"

This concerns the paramedics enough that they close the ambulance doors and drive him away to hospital, and he does not see Flint being dragged away from the man he has beaten into unconsciousness. Chandler does not see Flint's face twisted into a snarl and spattered with blood. In fact, the next time Chandler sees Flint, it is at the hearing into excessive use of force. He has six weeks' distance from Flint, between the capture of the murderer and the IPCC tribunal, and he spends it miserable and stressed, coping with episodes of particularly severe OCD symptoms almost daily. Because they are involved in the same case of police misconduct, they are not permitted to speak. 

Flint, of course, will have to deal with Interpol, but none of his team seem worried about it. The IPCC has to be involved because of the Whitechapel team, although there is no evidence of any harm done by the Metropolitan Police. 

When Flint walks into the hearing, Chandler yearningly half-rises from his seat, drinking in the sight of Flint as though they have been separated for years. The head of the committee, Eleanor Guthrie, addresses him as 'James McGraw', which astonishes the Whitechapel team. They all look at each other in bewilderment, until Jack Rackham, with his arm around Anne's narrow shoulders, who has _her_ arm around a stunningly beautiful girl, glances at them witheringly and says, "his name could hardly be 'Flint' could it, he's not Cher." 

"So why...?"

"It's his nickname," Jack says, rolling his eyes. 

Flint, or McGraw, stands before the tribunal in military lines, with his back straight and his hands folded neatly behind him. He does not look into the gallery. He does not see Chandler sitting there, although it becomes obvious that he has been aware of Chandler's presence all along when it comes his turn to be questioned. He defends his use of force on the basis of the high adrenaline of the situation, "and," he adds clearly, lifting his chin defiantly, "my feelings for DI Chandler."

Chandler rockets up from his seat, gripping the back of the chair in front and staring unblinkingly at the side of Flint's head. 

"You're conducting a relationship with DI Chandler?" Guthrie asks, sounding surprised. 

"No," Flint replies. 

Guthrie glances up at them, at Chandler, standing there with his mouth hanging open and his hands white-knuckled on the chair before him. "I take it DI Chandler has no idea about your feelings for him," she says coolly. "Until now," Flint agrees. He twitches, which would be a funny thing to watch, if the situation weren't so dramatic, because he clearly wants to look at Chandler, but doesn't dare. "Could you tell me how he took the news?" He asks Eleanor Guthrie, the chair of his tribunal, and she actually smiles. "I can't be certain, but I think he's taken it well," she answers smoothly, and then gets on with questioning him. 

In the end, because of Flint firing an utterly heretofore unseen (in Kent's opinion) roguish charm at the committee, and probably helped by the fact that the murderer and his family keep calling out slurs and interrupting, and most of the people in the room believe the man deserves a good punch to the face, the IPCC upholds the decision that no mistreatment of the prisoner was carried out by the Whitechapel team without quibbling, and Flint is referred on to Interpol. He will be suspended on full pay for six months, and obliged to pay damages, but that is for the future. 

For now, Eleanor Guthrie leads the IPCC panel out of the room, amid screams of injustice from the murderer, as he is taken back to the prison transport van, and his family, as they storm out, and Flint finally turns to look at the gallery, with something like fear in his eyes. He has to search for Chandler, who is no longer anywhere near his seat. The moment the tribunal ended, he had begun pushing his way to the aisle, his eyes so firmly on Flint that he had almost tripped several times. Chandler goes against the flow of people making for the exit, like a salmon against the current, shoving through impolitely, until he reaches Flint, until Flint sees him and starts forwards, his forehead creased and his hand outstretched. 

They catch each other in the middle of the room, in a beautiful parallel of their first meeting. Chandler takes Flint's hand and is tugged forwards. They look at each other, for a long moment, and then Chandler reaches up with his free hand, and cups Flint's jaw. Flint's eyelids flutter; he steps into Chandler's space, leaning into Chandler's hand and covering it with his own. What they say, if they say anything to each other, is too quiet for anyone else to hear. But after they have held on to one another for a while, swaying gently, Chandler inclines his head, noses at Flint's cheek, and Flint tilts his head up, lips a little parted, so that they can breathe the same air, foreheads together; and then one kiss becomes two, becomes three. 

Miles goes and gets them in the end. When the room has emptied of even the most committed gawkers (of which there had been a few), but Flint and Chandler have yet to unglue themselves, Miles goes up to them, grabs the back of Chandler's jacket, and starts to pull him away. Both of them make protesting noises and try to cling on to each other. Eventually, Chandler drags his head over his shoulder to look blearily down at whomever is moving him. "Miles," he croaks, sounding wrecked, "privacy, please?"

"You can have privacy when you're in a private place," Miles snaps, "you've been kissing him for forty minutes, the cleaners need to get in so they can close the building!"

"Forty minutes?!" Chandler repeats, stunned. Flint, still holding on to Chandler's lapels, amusingly checks his watch.

They walk out of the room still holding on to one another, an expression of such bliss on Flint's coarse, weather-beaten face, Kent suddenly appreciates how one could find him beautiful. He catches Silver's eye, and Silver mimes being struck through the heart. Their hands are together, their arms are intertwined, their heads are angled together; all of which contrives to make it difficult for them to walk. They stagger together like affectionate drunks towards the car park. "I'm parked over here," Chandler says dreamily, and Flint replies, "oh. I'm parked all the way over there."

They look so troubled by the idea of parting that the beautiful girl under Anne's arm, who is herself still under Jack's arm, rolls her eyes, and says, in a pretty French accent, "I will drive your car back to your home, Flint."

"Thank you," Flint replies gratefully, handing over his keys without glancing away from Chandler.

Surprisingly, over the next few weeks, they hear nothing about Flint. It wasn't that Chandler ever spoke about him before, but having witnessed their coming together, Kent rather expected Chandler to be full of Flint anecdotes at work. However, work progresses much as it always did, with subtle differences. Chandler no longer comes in hours early. Unless they have a case on and the team pulls paid overtime, he goes home when they do. He no longer suffers so many episodes at work, and though he continues to bring spare shirts, he doesn't always need them. He is quicker to smile and slower to irritation; his whole demeanour lightens. Even the way he walks is brighter.  
Kent strives to be happy for him. 

After about two months of the happier Chandler, they are handed another tricky case. Over the space of a week, nonsensical evidence continues to pile up; the victim has gunshot wounds and yet they've found knives encrusted with human blood in their suspect's flat, the victim was last seen a week ago, and yet Llewellyn's estimated time of death has to have been at least a month ago--the papers get wind of it, and Chandler, always a favourite with the local tabloids because of the high profile cases he has handled in the past, is splashed across the front pages, yet again. 

He begins to look more like the pre-Flint Chandler, drawn and white and unsmiling. He begins to change his shirt every couple of hours, Kent sees him before work one day, carrying a bottle of vodka out of an off-licence at eight o'clock in the morning. Pins are colour co-ordinated and re-arranged on his desk, daily. Kent, feeling guilty for all of the bad feelings he had about Chandler while he was happy, sticks to his usual rhythms of working the same hours as Chandler; staying late and arriving early, trying to take little jobs like emptying the bins last thing at night so that Chandler doesn't have to worry about them. 

Three weeks into the investigation, and they're no further forward; Kent sits in a mostly darkened office, with only the light above his own desk and the light streaming from Chandler's office throwing long and odd-shaped shadows at the walls. Kent is mostly absorbed in what he's doing, which is re-watching the CCTV tapes they have for anything they may have missed. It's a long shot at this point, because they've already been watched twice, but in this case, there is no such thing as too thorough. 

Vaguely, he is aware of Chandler moving around inside his office, though it's not until he hears glass shattering that Kent actually looks up. Chandler explodes out of his office, grey-faced and expression tight. He strides purposefully towards the door, stops himself short, turns around. He walks reluctantly back to his office. Stops again. Takes a deep breath, and tries to take another couple of strides towards the door. Stops again. Kent sees him clenching his jaw, sees him ball his hands into fists. Then he goes back to his office and switches the light on. 

Off. 

On. 

Off. 

"Sir," Kent says, scrambling out of his seat. Chandler jumps, head whipping round. "Oh," he says unhappily. "Kent. It's you."

"Is there anything I can do, sir?" Kent asks anxiously. Chandler turns his light on and off another couple of times. "No," he grinds out. "No. Go home." He flips the switch rapidly, and then slams his forehead into the doorframe, obviously close to tears. "Sir," Kent repeats emphatically.

With his free hand, Chandler fumbles his mobile phone out of his pocket and shakily holds it out towards Kent. "Could you--" he gulps, nervously flipping the light switch, "could you call James. Please."

It takes Kent a full five seconds to remember that James is Flint's name. "Oh," he says, "yes, of course. I need your passcode, sir."

Chandler gives it to him in a voice both thick with tears and tight with frustration. Kent thumbs through his phone book, mistakenly going first to 'F'. The phone doesn't ring for long before Flint answers, in tones quite unlike the ones Kent remembers. _"Hello my love,"_ he murmurs, and at the other end of the phone line, Kent hears quiet music, and the sound of something sizzling in a pan. _"Are you on your way home?"_

"Er," Kent says stupidly, "um. Sorry. This is, it's DC Kent. One of DI Chandler's team?"

_"Yes, I remember you,"_ Flint says impatiently, his voice sharp and wary. _"What's happened?"_

"Nothing," Kent replies, and then curses himself, "I mean, he's safe, everyone's safe, it's just. He really needs you to come down to the station. Please."

_"He's all right?"_ Flint asks suspiciously, even as the quiet music in the background shuts off. "He's not hurt or injured," Kent admits, "but he's not exactly all right."

Thankfully, they've both been at the office so late that the rush hour traffic has died down, but it still takes Flint half an hour to get to Whitechapel, during which time Chandler has counted to a hundred and fifty flips of the light switch several times. Kent has stayed with him, getting him water when he refused tea, not touching him, but standing close and telling him silly things, personal things; funny stories from his flatmates and his childhood, until the door of the incident room flies open and Flint bursts through it.

He looks totally different. Kent could have easily walked past him on the street without recognising him. His chin is clean shaven, and has let his hair grow back in. He looks at least a decade younger, and is dressed in a soft-looking grey jumper and a pair of jeans. He is, Kent grudgingly admits, very handsome. He doesn't even seem to see Kent; he goes straight to Chandler, who holds out his free arm desperately. He walks under Chandler's arm and throws his own around Chandler's back. 

Chandler buries his face in Flint's shoulder and begins to sob. He does not take his hand from the light switch, but at least he stops flipping it. "Okay," Flint murmurs, rocking him, "it's okay, you're okay."

His hand travels the length of Chandler's arm, until their fingers meet on the light switch. "Start again from one," Flint says softly, "let's do it together. Yeah? As many times as you need."

"I don't want--I don't--"

"I know you don't," Flint says soothingly, "I know, my love." 

Chandler nods, his face hidden in the slope of Flint's neck. So they slowly, deliberately, switch the light on and off, Flint murmuring the numbers directly into Chandler's skin. Kent quietly tidies the office around them, emptying bins and straightening desks, so that Chandler won't see anything else triggering on the way out. 

He and Flint go slowly up to one hundred and fifty, and then they do it again, slower. Chandler begins to raise his head from Flint's shoulder; he presses their foreheads together instead, so that they can breathe the same air. Finally, the light goes off, and Chandler drags his hand away from the switch, cupping Flint's jaw with it instead. He tries to speak quietly, soberly, but his voice cracks, up into a tearful squeak, and then into an ashamed whisper. "I'm sorry," he says, "I'm sorry. I'm so sor--"

"My love," Flint interrupts fiercely, "Thank you for calling me."

"I'm--what?"

"Thank you," Flint repeats, more gently, "for calling me. I'm glad I could help you. I'm happy you didn't have to do this alone."

Kent assumes he has been forgotten about. Certainly, Chandler doesn't look at him as they make their way to the door, but Flint's eyes search him out. He gives a curt nod of thanks, which Kent returns automatically. 

Some months later, in the weeks before Flint is due to return to his team at Interpol, he turns up unexpectedly at the incident room, with his hair longer again; tawny red-brown and artfully tousled, and looking younger still. He goes straight to Chandler's door, throwing a couple of greetings out at the room in general, and a wink to Miles specifically. He closes the door to Chandler's office behind him, but this does not prevent the sound of muffled shouting from both of them, after about ten minutes of quiet conversation. Flint's voice rises above Chandler's to bellow, "because I was going to propose to you, you stupid fucking prat!"

He flings the door open and storms out, leaving Chandler at his desk looking so stricken that Miles actually breaks into a little jog rather than walking into his office. The rest of them stare after Flint, mouths open. In Chandler's office, they hear Chandler's voice, quiet, conscious of everyone listening, but rapid in panic, as he insists, "I've ruined it, I've ruined it, haven't I? What am I going to do?" and Miles replying, in low, urgent tones, "don't be ridiculous, it's just a tiff, don't get yourself worked up--"

"He was going to--to propose--" Chandler hisses, agonised. The way he says it almost makes it sound like a question. It is at this point that Miles reaches behind himself and pushes the door shut. The incident room stops discussing their current case, and starts discussing Flint and Chandler. Between them, they work out that it is in fact, six months to the day that Flint and Chandler met. This is so absurdly romantic for someone who looks like Flint, even the new, less frightening, younger-looking Flint, that Kent refuses to believe it until Riley shows him on her calendar. 

He comes back eventually, scowling, hands shoved in his pockets. He walks in and glowers at them, until Kent knocks on Chandler's office door, and says, timidly, "er, boss? Flint's here."

Chandler's pale skin betrays his every emotion, and he's blotchy around the eyes. Miles appeals silently to God as Chandler scrambles clumsily out of his chair. 

Flint's scowl lasts about two seconds when he sees Chandler's tear-stained face. He drops the attitude immediately, and wraps him in the warmest of hugs, his hand on the curve of Chandler's golden-blond head. "I'm sorry," Chandler mumbles unhappily. "No," Flint replies, muffled by Chandler's shoulder. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have just turned up. I know your work is important. I know you're busy. It was a stupid idea."

"No, it wasn't!" Chandler wails, "it was a lovely idea and I wrecked it!"

"You're both equally to blame, how about that?" Miles mutters irritably. 

"Do you..." Chandler swallows nervously, his fingers twitching on Flint's shoulders, "genuinely. Want to...?"

"What?" Flint begins to smile, wryly. "Marry you?"

Chandler nods, staring studiously at his own fingers tugging at a loose thread on the seam of Flint's shirt rather than looking him in the eye. Flint takes Chandler's face in both hands, moves him round so that Chandler has no choice but to look at him. "Yes, my love," he breathes, "I want to marry you." 

And so they get married, in a small, elegant ceremony six months later. It is precisely to Chandler's taste; everything is small and neat and delicate, and later, when Miles laughingly asks if Flint had been involved at all, Chandler shocks them all by replying, in utterly sincere bewilderment, "of course he was, with absolutely everything. Who would get married without their fiance's involvement in planning the ceremony?"

Riley explains the concept of Don't Tell the Bride, which Chandler seems to find truly awful ("if they just want to create a wedding the bride will hate, then why on earth do the brides want to marry them? Do people find that funny?"), while Mansell tries to insist that weddings are for brides and girls, and grooms ought to stay out of it. Chandler replies, exasperated, "Mansell, how would that work? We're both grooms," and they spend an enjoyable few minutes watching Mansell try to work out if there was an inoffensive, non-homophobic way to tell Chandler that Mansell believed that he, Chandler, was in fact, 'the wife'. 

Chandler wears the sharpest suit any of them have ever seen him in, and he wears sharp suits every day. Flint, on the other hand, wears his navy dress uniform. As a retired lieutenant with an honourable discharge, he is entitled, and most of his guests are navy colleagues. Also wearing dress uniforms are an impossibly tall, impossibly handsome, impossibly muscular young Royal Marine named Billy, who is so unfeasibly, unfairly good looking that nobody can stop staring at him, and his tiny, sweet-faced girlfriend, Abby. 

Tagging along with them is a man who looks more like a pirate even than Flint does--he even has tattoos on his bald head--but who Flint clearly has a great deal of affection for. He is introduced as Mr Gates. Nobody calls him anything else, not even Flint. There's Joji, who is silent and upright, like a statue come to life, de Groot, who is missing half an ear; Featherstone, who's made an effort but still looks a little scruffy, and Idelle, in a superbly low-cut gown. 

Like all of Flint's friends, they are fucking terrifying. 

Flint was orphaned at a young age, so representing a father-figure in his life is an honest to God admiral, with a perfect line of medals shining along one side of his chest. In a dual role as Chandler's best man and father-figure, to absolutely nobody's surprise, except possibly Commander Anderson, is Miles. Flint's best man, however, is a surprise to all of them, but particularly to Chandler. It turns out that Miranda Barlow had been extremely close to Chandler at university, and now the three of them have fallen into talking like they had known each other all their lives. 

Silver has gotten over his heartbreak, or is getting over it, with a queenly woman from forensics, whom he introduces as Madi, though none of them will ever dare to call her anything but Dr Scott. "Have you seen that film, _A United Kingdom?"_ Silver asks them, quietly, while Madi is at the bar. "About Seretse Khama? I'm pretty sure I'm Rosamund Pike in this scenario. I think one day she's going to tell me she's the heir to the throne of somewhere. Isn't she spectacular?" His ice blue eyes fix on her as she glides back over to them. 

Chandler's speech, when it comes, is characteristically awkward; he attempts a few jokes, which get dutiful titters. He thanks his team for their support, he thanks Miles for his unwavering, bulldog loyalty, and he looks down at Flint with an expression of pure adoration, and reminds them that he does not have the vocabulary--no, English has not developed the words--for him to adequately express just how much he loves Flint. And that never, in a million years, would he have thought that something, someone, so perfect, would come into his life. They applaud, Riley with tears in her eyes. Kent, too, but for different reasons. 

Flint has no nervousness when it comes for him to speak. He is a gifted orator, and his Presence, which Kent has started capitalising in his head, his Presence is as forceful as ever. Everyone falls silent automatically, and stays silent. Flint talks about his childhood (lonely), his life in the navy, his friends, his team at Interpol. "Finally," he says, with the gravitas he somehow manages to give all his speeches. He does not have his speech written down on neatly folded paper, the way Chandler has, nor does he fidget or look uncomfortable. He looks perfectly at ease, sweeping the room with his penetrating green eyes, managing, somehow, to make them feel like he is looking at everyone at once. 

"I have lived a reasonably varied life," he continues thoughtfully. "And it may sound cliche to say I always knew something was missing. Nevertheless, something never sat right with me; I felt I was always looking for something, in all the travelling I did, and continued to do, the people I met, and the experiences I had, I felt--always--dissatisfied."

"Understatement," Billy heckles. They laugh, even Flint. 

"Joe," Flint says, almost reverently, "managed to fill all the empty spaces. Though I felt their absence, I could never name the parts of myself I was missing. In falling in love with you," he looks down at Chandler with undisguised affection, "I came to know myself. You have found my missing pieces, shone light into my empty spaces; I have never been more myself than I have been since I fell in love with you. I loved you as soon as I saw you, as if I had known you for years. If the part of me which had been always searching had suddenly stepped outside myself, pointed to you, and said, 'there. There he is', I couldn't have known it more definitely. You have made me a whole human being. I will never stop being grateful for you."

The room is in floods of tears. Even Miles is in floods of tears--but then, nobody had known about Chandler's lack of belief in himself more than Miles had.

"And if I do," Flint continues, dryly, "feel free to remind me."

They all choke out laughter, as Flint raises his champagne. "To Joseph McGraw," he says.

For, rightly, Kent must stop calling him 'Chandler'. He has been giddy about changing his name for weeks. Kent can't bring himself to. Not just yet. 

Flint sits down again, after they all clink glasses, and Chandler immediately buries his face in Flint's neck. He stays there for so long that Miranda puts a straw in Flint's champagne and holds it up to him. Flint happily drinks it over Chandler's shoulder. 

The best men give their speeches. Miranda's is a scream; she is a gifted speaker and tells stories about Flint which have him scarlet-faced but laughing helplessly. She tells them enthusiastically about a bar fight between their crew and the crew of a Spanish ship in dock on the other side of a smallish island; how Flint had drunkenly decided (after being thrown out of the bar) that the best way to teach them a lesson was, "to shteal their fucken boat, Miranda," Miranda mimicks, "we--we, no lishten to me, we just shwim out to it. See? See? S'easy. S'fine. We're navy, so s'fine. Shpoils of war, Miranda. They'll do me a column, like Nelson, only in--in Padstow. Won' that be good? Okay then. Spanish bloody armada, my arse." 

Miles, surprisingly, does not try to embarrass Joe too much; he tells a couple of stories which do not include any OCD freak-outs, although does mention the one time Chandler was mistaken for an angel by a cult. Flint worshipfully caresses Chandler's golden blond hair when he hears this, clearly comprehending how such a misunderstanding should come about. Then, obviously steeling himself as though about to say something terrible, Miles admits, "Joe...never thought he was worth someone putting in the effort to love him. Listen very carefully Joe, because I shall say this only once," he pauses, as they laugh at the reference, "no effort whatsoever is required in order to love you. James loves you, the team loves you, and I love you. Don't doubt that."

Their table; Riley, Mansell, Llewellyn, Ed, and Kent himself, stand up to applaud. They raise glasses; Miles sits down again, making gruff, manly noises, and avoiding Chandler's gaze. Chandler is wearing a sweet expression of disbelief; tears are streaming down his face. He holds out his hand to Miles, and then, when Miles takes it as if to shake, Chandler immediately thinks better of it, and simply throws both arms around Miles' neck. Beside them, Judy cries happily into her hankie. 

And so life continues on as it did before. Sometimes they call Flint when Joe has a really bad episode. Sometimes Flint calls them and tells them Joe won't be in that day. The name on his office door changes from 'DI Chandler' to 'DI McGraw', but he cheerfully answers to both. They don't hear much by way of gossip from him, although on one memorable morning, he comes in with a hickey just visible above the crisp white line of his collar. 

Around three months after the marriage, they get involved in another tricky case; this time because they believe the suspect has fled back to his native Estonia. They gather around the whiteboards for their usual summation of all the evidence, and Miles asks, "could Flint's team help with this? Does he have any contacts in Estonia who would be willing to work with us?"

"Oh," Joe dimples happily at any mention of Flint, and he does so now. "Well, I'll ask him, of course, but it might take a while before we get anything back. He'll have to ask Silver for us, and of course Silver will be busy with his own work."

Miles cocks an eyebrow, mystified. "Why would he ask Silver? I thought he just got a slap on the wrist, they haven't demoted him, have they?"

"No," Joe looks surprised as well, as though he thought this was common knowledge. "But he quit his job at Interpol just before we got married. Didn't I say?"

"No!" Miles exclaims, bewildered. "Why? What about his team?"

"They're very good friends outside of work anyway," Joe says nonchalantly. "So it's not as if he never sees them." 

"Well, what's he going to do instead?" Miles demands, as if Flint leaving his job were a personal insult. 

"Oh, he already has another job teaching at a university," Joe says brightly. "We're looking at houses nearby. It's going to give him more time to himself, he says, better pay, and no corpses."

"Teaching what?" Riley asks, interested, "criminology?"

"No, English Literature," Joe replies, stunning them all into silence. "English Literature," Mansell repeats, apparently trying to make sense of it by saying it out loud. "Yes," Joe looks round at them all in surprise. "Why do you all look so shocked?" 

They try not to look shocked and succeed only in looking uncomfortable. "Well," Miles explains kindly, "it's just, don't you have to have, you know, qualifications and stuff to do that? Or is he like a teaching assistant or something?" 

Joe's eyebrows furrow perplexedly. "He has qualifications," he says, as though this were common knowledge as well, "he has a PhD in English Literature and a masters in history. He specialises in the eighteenth century. He's written articles in academic journals and--" He cuts himself off, aware of their incredulous stares. "I...I didn't mention any of this to you, did I?" Joe translates after a moment of silence. "No," Miles replies weakly, "you didn't mention this to any of us. So he's...he's actually Dr McGraw, then?"

"Oh!" Joe's face flushes with pleasure, "I never really thought about it. I'm so used to thinking of him as Lieutenant McGraw. Yes, I suppose he is."

"Jesus Christ," Miles mutters. "Listen, I have never said this to anyone before in my life, but Joe, for the love of God, talk about your personal life more often? I can't keep up with you any more."

"Miranda works there too," Joe offers, humbly. 

Despite that, they hear nothing more of Flint until Joe shyly invites them to a housewarming party. Miles slams a folder down on his desk and yells, "when did you buy a house?" Joe laughingly tells him the sale has only just gone through. They all agree excitedly to go, though Kent hears Miles asking the question they have all secretly been thinking; "are you sure? Parties are...messy."

"It's fine," Joe says confidently, "none of our furniture will be there yet, and we're completely redecorating anyway, so there's nothing to get ruined. Besides, James will be there." He smiles, a gentle, private smile, and plays idly with his wedding ring. Miles watches him for a moment, affectionately, and then he gives Joe a dead arm. "Good," he says cheerfully, ignoring Joe's yelp of pain, "see you there, then."

They do see him there, two weeks later, wearing a blue shirt, open at the throat, and looking more casual than any of them have ever seen him. Behind him, Flint wears something far too large, and Kent belatedly, enviously, realises it's because the shirt is Joe's. It is the most informal party Kent has ever been to; especially where Joe Chand--McGraw is involved. There is no real furniture for one thing; guests are sitting on the floor, leaning on walls, sitting on packing crates and white plastic garden chairs ("Not ours," Joe explains cheerfully, "borrowed"). There is one sofa--ugly--left behind by the previous owner ("going in the skip tomorrow," Joe says, with not inconsiderable relish at the idea). 

Flint, surprisingly, does all the cooking; the kitchen is full of delicate little pastries and exquisitely put together snacks. Everything is unbelievably good; when Mansell, plate loaded high, asks Joe where they bought their food, Joe blushes and dimples and smiles the way he always does when he gets to talk about Flint and says, "James made everything," in a quiet, glowing way. Flint simply smiles at Joe, and advises Mansell not to talk with his mouth full. 

Being an English professor rather than a detective has put a couple of pounds on Flint, but it sits comfortably on him. He looks relaxed and easy, happy to banter with Silver and discuss Joe with Miles. "They're comparing notes on me," Joe says disconsolately, watching them. Miranda giggles and pats his back. "It's just because they love you, my darling," she tells him sweetly. "Let's compare notes on them as well."

"How did he get the name 'Flint'?" Mansell asks, still through a full mouth. Flint wrinkles his nose. "Hard, sharp, cold, ruthless," Miranda says cheerfully. 

"Also liable to start fires," Rackham adds, from across the room. 

"That was once," Flint snaps, apparently aggrieved, "I wish you would stop going on about it!"

"You really started a fire?" Joe asks wonderingly. Flint heaves a sigh. "Well, yes," he admits, "but only a small house one."

"He did it in my honour," Miranda supplies, "I was being held hostage by a maniac."

"Actually former boyfriend," Flint translates. "Who turned out to be a maniac, did he not?" Miranda shoots back. "He did have a gun!"

"So, as you see, the distraction fire was justified. Charles wanted to shoot him with the guns on HMS Belfast." Flint summarises. Charles raises his glass. "I stand by that," he murmurs. "Could you," Ed begins excitedly, "could you actually fire the guns on HMS Belfast?"

"Yes," Flint and Charles say together. "But I doubt they're still in working order," Flint adds, "since they're aimed in-land."

"All I'm saying is, we could've tried," Charles says, unrepentant. This starts them arguing about artillery, and blast areas. 

Joe watches him fondly for a moment, and when they stop to glare challengingly at each other, he asks, "would you set fire to a house for me?"

"No," Flint says, still glowering at Charles. They start to laugh, amused at his point blank answer, but he hadn't finished, he was merely taking a moment to flick a V at Charles before he continued. "Joseph," he says, going to his toes to smooch at Joe's mouth, "for you, I would set fire to the whole world." 

Miranda pretends to be insulted. "And I only warrant a house?" She demands. They're too busy making heart eyes at each other to heed her, so she commandeers a bottle of red wine for her own, and flirts outrageously with Ed for a long time, until Ed happens to mention something historical, and Flint is suddenly at his side, wearing an intense expression. They sit on the floor with a bag of tortilla chips between them, earnestly discussing Bethlem Royal Hospital, of all places. 

Smiling, she turns away, and almost walks into Kent, who has been watching Flint with narrowed eyes all night. "Oh!" She exclaims, "I'm so sorry. I didn't see you."

"No harm done," Kent forces a smile. 

She squints at him, and then looks over her shoulder at Flint. "Do you....dislike him?" She asks quietly. Kent pretends not to know who she means, until she drags him into the kitchen. "What's your problem with him?" She asks interestedly, hopping up to sit on the kitchen counter. "Because of all the points in his life I would have said you had a valid reason, now is not one of them. Being in love has made him intensely likeable."

When Kent doesn't reply immediately, she raises her eyebrows. "Oh, right," she says slowly, "you're the one who loves Joe."

"'The one'?" Kent repeats, a little fearfully. 

"Yes," Miranda agrees, "do you think you're being subtle? I'm afraid not."

Kent drops his face into his hands. "God," he groans, "does he know? Is he going to kill me?"

"No," Miranda spies a dish of olives and sets about spearing them with a cocktail stick. "Of course not, he'd have done it by now, if he was."

Someone calls her from the living room, so she spares him a sympathetic look, and leaves, taking her dish of olives with her. Kent sinks down on to the floor and sighs at the kitchen cabinets, intending to sit there for the rest of the night, or at least until someone calls him a taxi. He picks dismally at the linoleum that Joe is having ripped up and replaced with proper tiles. Good, the lino is horrible. The whole house is horrible, if he's honest; but the outside is pretty, and the inside is going to be gorgeous, once they tear out the ancient fittings and repaint the walls. 

Next door, a Frankie Valli song starts up. Kent mostly associates it with drunks in working men's clubs, and at the football--everyone always shouts the chorus. Flint walks in suddenly, carrying used paper plates to the black bin bag they have sitting by their back door. He is singing along softly, the way people do when they think they're unobserved. He does not notice Kent, slumped in the corner, and gripped with sudden panic. 

_"You're just too good to be true,"_ he croons, flicking open the bin bag with his toe, _"can't take my eyes off of you,"_ tips the plates into the bag, and does not notice, amid the rustling, Joe walking into the room behind him. _"You'd be like heaven to touch,"_ he sings, oblivious to the achingly affectionate expression on Joe's face, and the fact that Joe is tiptoeing closer. _"I wanna hold you so much,"_ Joe adds his voice to the song, Flint starting in surprise as Joe's arms wrap around him from behind. He turns within the circle of Joe's arms. "God almighty, I almost shat myself," he says, unromantically, but Joe simply sniggers and pulls him closer, swaying him to the music. Flint's hands slide up from Joe's chest to his shoulders, and he rests his head over Joe's heart. 

"Are you all right?" Joe asks quietly, into his hair. "You're not feeling overwhelmed?"

Now this is interesting. Flint gets overwhelmed? Kent has decided to pretend to be asleep. He is a sleepy drunk, Joe knows this, so he thinks he can get away with it. He watches them between his eyelashes. 

"I'm fine," Flint leans back to look into Joe's face. "And what about you, my love?"

"Surprisingly okay," Joe admits, smiling. They look at each other for a while, as if they would never get enough of looking. They're disturbed by everyone in the living room roaring,  
"I! LOVE! YOU! BAY-BY! AND IF IT'S QUITE ALL RIGHT..."

"I do want them to leave, though," Flint confesses sourly, over the noise, and Joe begins to laugh. Kent has never seen Joe laugh the way he laughs with Flint; he throws back his head and his eyes crinkle at the corners. Flint smiles at his laughter, his eyes soft and adoring, and tugs him down to kiss. Joe brings up a hand to brush Flint's cheek, and he melts, his shoulders dropping and his head falling against the meagre touch like he has been starved for it. 

Kent wants to close his eyes, to not-watch what is surely going to be creepily voyueristic at best and stunningly painful at worst, but he's gripped abruptly by a sudden, mad desire to see them together, to see if they really are meant for each other, to see if he can see something in Flint that he, Kent, would not have been able to provide. He feels a great swell of viciousness, but he's not sure as to whom it's directed. 

They're close kissers. On the other occasions Kent has seen them kiss; at the IPCC tribunal, and at the wedding, he had brushed that off as being down to the emotion of the day. But even here, in their horrible, old-fashioned kitchen, they seem to take delight in simply sharing the same air; foreheads together, nosing and nuzzling for minutes before they actually decide to kiss properly. They're standing so close together, holding each other so tightly, each movement has to be tiny, a micro-version of itself. It is shockingly intimate; they can't seem to bear to leave an inch of clear air between them. 

They kiss for a long while, until Joe pulls back slightly, and Flint sways, staring blearily at him like a drunk. "Well, if you're sure you're okay," Joe teases, as if he had just popped into the kitchen to see how Flint was doing, as if his mouth hasn't become tender and rosy. Flint immediately looks confused and hurt, and as Joe turns, Kent realises that it's pretty likely they're going to notice him. He closes his eyes and forces himself to breathe evenly. "What?" He hears Flint mumble, "no, wait, more kisses--Jesus _Christ_ \--"

Belatedly, as Kent hears running footsteps, and Joe's panicked, "Kent?!" he realises that maybe someone's first thoughts when seeing a person slumped on the floor at a fairly low-key party would not be 'drunk', but perhaps, 'collapsed'. 

He feels hands tilting his head upwards, and he pretends to stir. He plasters a beatific smile on and says, "hullo, sir--" 

He opens his eyes. The hands on his face are Flint's. And Flint is looking at him with no small amount of suspicion. Although he's lost his love-drunk daze, his mouth is still kiss-stung. "Should I call an ambulance?" Joe asks, hovering anxiously behind him. Kent has no doubt that the colour has dropped out of his face, so he schools his expression back into silly drunkenness, and squints up at Joe. "An-anblumance?" He slurs convincingly. "Wha' for?"

"Are you all right?" Flint asks, in a frighteningly shrewd voice. "Must'a fallen asleep," Kent mumbles. Flint takes his arm and pulls him to his feet, rather more quickly than necessary. "He's okay," he says to Joe, over his shoulder, "aren't you?"

"Yep!" Kent bleats. 

"Well," Flint says, "if you and your friends are quite finished with trying to give me a heart attack!"

Joe grins guiltily. "I'll call you a taxi, Kent," he says kindly, thumbing through his phone. "I think it's about time we called it a night anyway." He goes through into the living room, and Kent makes to follow him. He realises belatedly that Flint still has a grip on his elbow. "It's funny," Flint says softly, "that you thought you knew who you were talking to, before you opened your eyes."

"Er...must've been dreaming," Kent lies uncomfortably. "Must have," Flint agrees, with an edge of sarcasm. "And you must have been drinking pretty heavily to fall asleep like that. Only, I don't think I've seen you touch a drop all night."

"You--you haven't been watching me the whole time," Kent argues feebly. Flint's eye twitches and Kent wants to step back. "And your breath," Flint continues, dangerously, "doesn't smell at all like alcohol."

"Look," Kent drops his drunk act desperately, "you came in, you were singing, I didn't know what to do!" 

"Maybe just walked out?" Flint's grip on his elbow is becoming really rather painful. "There were several minutes there when I certainly wouldn't have noticed a fucking elephant, let alone you." 

"Please don't tell him!" Kent blurts, "I swear, I really did stay because of panic. I don't want to seem even creepier to him, he already knows I--that I--" He looks down at the floor, his face burning. After a beat, the grip on his elbow relaxes. "Do you want to know something?" Flint asks. Kent dares to glance up at him. "He doesn't know," Flint says simply. "I realise that sounds fucking bizarre. He thinks it's hero-worship, like me and Silver; he finds it totally unthinkable, even now, that anyone would have a crush on him. As if I hadn't proved that it were possible."

They look at each other. Flint still looks totally unimpressed, but Kent is working his way from pants-shittingly scared to merely sheepish. "Silver loves you," Kent tells him, in a small voice. Flint snorts. "Silver," he scoffs, "does not love me. Silver believes he loves me, but if I ever made a move on him, he'd wet himself."

"You already knew?"

"Of course I already knew," Flint says impatiently, "I used to lean into him sometimes to watch him panic and scurry about like a little rat."

Kent stares at him. "You wouldn't...you wouldn't do that to Joe, would you?" He chokes out. He flinches back at the look Flint turns on him. "No," Flint stresses, clearly revolted at the thought, "Jesus Christ. Are you about to give me the shovel talk? Because I could snap you in fucking half, and besides, Miles has already done it."

"No, I just..." Kent sighs, "I just want someone to take care of him. You know?"

"I do know," Flint says, with sudden, surprising gentleness. "And I am looking after him."

Kent dares to look up again, and finds Flint smiling--or if not smiling, then at least not scowling. "So perhaps you could stop glaring at me, because it's getting old," Flint adds, and Kent flinches again. "Also, if I ever catch you spying on us again, I will strap you to the muzzle of the HMS Belfast guns and scatter you over greater London."

He pats Kent's shoulder in an unreassuring way, and goes out into the living room. Joe is informing them all in general he is about to call for a taxi for Kent, and if they want him to ask for more than one, he will. It's a not-entirely subtle way of telling them the night is over, and they're all yelling and throwing popcorn at him when Flint walks in. He levels a glass-green glower on them, which instantly quietens them down--all except for Miranda and Charles, who are cuddled up in one corner stifling giggles at his expression. 

Flint goes straight up to Joe, loops his arms around Joe's neck, and pulls him into a deep, slow kiss. Joe makes a stifled squeak of surprise, but does not attempt to move away. He has his mobile phone in one hand, which he presses, nevertheless, to the small of Flint's back. In the other, he's holding a glass of prosecco, which he holds beseechingly out towards the sofa, until Rackham takes pity and removes it. This hand, he buries in Flint's hair. Their guests begin cat calling and cheering, but as the kiss goes on, they start to grumble and to throw things again. 

Finally, Flint pulls back, breathing hard. He smiles up at Joe, who dazedly asks, "what was that for?"

He shrugs. "I just love you." Joe smiles, blindingly, and murmurs, "I love you too," as he knocks his forehead gently against Flint's. They sway a little, gazing at each other, although their eyes are so close together, the view cannot be good; until Flint swivels his head sideways and glares down at them on the sofa. "Are you people still here?" He asks.  
This is more effective than Joe's unsubtle taxi hints. They all get up to leave, moving around Flint and Joe like water moves around stone. 

Some of them stagger off down the street, heading for bus stops. The girls, Riley, Madi, Miranda, Anne and Max, sit on the kerb with a bottle of white wine to pass between them, waiting for a taxi which they intend will take them on an extended girls' night. Kent pauses in the doorway, looking back towards Flint and Joe, still held in each other's arms. Flint's face is tipped up, and Joe's is tilted down, they're looking at each other as if there's nothing else in the world to see. Not kissing, not intending to kiss. Just looking, and looking, and looking, and Flint's face is alight with adoration, his green eyes soft. 

"They are made for each other, I suppose," Kent says gloomily to Silver. Silver glances back at them. "Suppose so," he shrugs. "You weren't in love with him, then," Kent adds, following Silver out of the door. "No," Silver agreed. "I thought I was, but not like that. You?"

"I could look at him like that, for as long as he would let me," Kent admits, shoving his hands into his pockets and looking smilingly into the darkling sky, "but I'm glad someone is doing it, even if it isn't me."

"That's true love, man," Silver agrees, patting him on the shoulder. "Pub?"

"Yeah." 

They close the door behind them.


End file.
